record rainbow trout in 1969.
snowy face of 13,561-foot-high Hayden Peak.
We hiked the four miles down from our
mountain retreat to Aspen one morning to
go fishing with 82-year-old Sylvia Maurin
(above). She was sitting by the screen door of
her cottage, her lean shoulders bent like a
brittle bow over the tangle of fishing line in
her lap. A modish wide-brimmed hat nearly
hid the bashful smile that eased across her
small thin face. "Sometimes it takes a lot of
patience when things go wrong and you want
to go fishing," she said.
With a can full of earthworms in her satchel
and her fishing rod slung jauntily over her
shoulder, she led us along Castle Creek to
A town... a mountain... a way of life
the spot where, at age 78, she had caught the
biggest fish ever hooked in the creek, a five
and-a -half-pound rainbow trout.
As a child in 1900, Mrs. Maurin had played
along the creek while her father loaded ore at
the nearby mine. "I'm gonna tell you some
thing," she said, leaning toward us. "My par
ents named me Silver Dollar, but I was afraid
the kids would call me Two Bits or some
thing, so I called myself Sylvia. I thought it
sounded more sensible."
Within an hour she had caught the limit,
and then she gave them to me. "I love to fish,"
she said. "Guess it's because I feel close to
God and nature when I'm fishing. But I don't
like to eat them."
Walking back to town, she reminisced
about Aspen during the mining days. "We had
really nice things here then. On Saturday
nights the band always played. The streets
were crowded. Everyone was dressed up fit
to kill. I kind of enjoyed that way of living. It
seemed more refined in some ways."
Crazy's the Word for Winterskol
The Aspenites Mrs. Maurin recalled were
certainly more dignified than the bicyclist
we saw pedaling down snow-mantled Main
Street with half a kayak on his head and a ski
on his left foot, leading the 22d annual Win
terskol parade. Aspen has always been a fun
loving town, and everyone puts together a
costume for the January festival's rollicking
parade. Draped in togas, members of the Rug
by Club tossed candy from their Roman-orgy
float. Behind them, doctors from the Aspen
Clinic staged a shoot-out on their rolling re
creation of a mining-days bordello.
Jill and I and two friends raced as a team
we called Fickle Finger Fotographics into the
finals of the Winterskol ski championships,
where, unfortunately, costume did not count
as much as speed. We joined a cheering crowd
at the Willoughby jump as daredevils somer
saulted into the air (pages 802-3), trying to
throw the most spectacular flip of the day.
The crowd "ooohed" as they sailed through
the air and roared encouragement when they
somehow staggered to their feet after hor
rendous crash landings.
Jill joined in Winterskol's climax, a night
descent of Aspen Mountain commemorating
the miners who hiked down from their mines
by torchlight. Cameras ready, I stood across
the valley shivering and stamping my feet
(Continued on page 806)
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